Killing John Marston
by Raptorguy19
Summary: John Marston has finally put his outlaw life behind him, but does the law see it that way? Edgar Ross certainly doesn't, and he's determined to kill the last member of Van der Linde's old gang.
1. To Kill A Marston

**Blackwater Saloon, September 17, 1911**

Archer Fordham and Edgar Ross entered the saloon, laughing jubilantly at the defeat of Dutch van der Linde and his gang of outlaws. They had just finished filing their reports about the incident at the police station, and they were celebrating a job well done. To them, the death of Van der Linde meant the end of organized crime in West Elizabeth. The pair reached the bar, and the bartender, Milford Weaver, looked at the men and recognized them immediately. He smiled and asked them what they wanted.

"I'll take a shot of your finest whiskey," Ross said, taking his hat off and placing it on the bar. "Archie will have the same." Milford reached into one of the cabinets and pulled out a bottle of fine Jack Daniel's whiskey. He then pulled out a couple shot glasses, placed them on the counter, and poured the liquid into the glasses.

"Gentlemen, these are on the house," Milford said, smiling. "I assume this means you got Van der Linde?"

"Yes, sir," Fordham responded. "Dutch van der Linde is dead, Bill Williamson is dead, and Javier Escuella is on trial for his crimes."

"That's good to hear," Milford said. "Now enjoy your drinks."

"Thank you, Mr. Weaver," Ross said, quickly downing his shot. Milford immediately grabbed the glass from the counter and wiped it down.

"So, Edgar, what are our plans now?" Archie asked. "The Van der Linde gang is gone, which means West Elizabeth is free of organized crime."

"Well, I say we should handle the crime in New Austin," Ross responded. "Recent reports from the marshal in Armadillo say that the Walton Gang has a new leader, and a group of Mexican banditos is occupying Fort Mercer."

Fordham drank his shot of whiskey and responded, "That sounds fair enough. So who's leading the Walton Gang now?"

"Oh, just some youngster. I think his name was Lowell, or something like that. Don't worry, they don't seem like much of a threat. Most of them are just pathetic drunks anyway."

"And the banditos at Fort Mercer?"

"Those banditos won't be too difficult to drive out. Fort Mercer was well off when it was first built, but it's falling apart now. They're not very well protected."

"You have a point there, sir," Fordham said. "Are there any other gangs?"

"The Bollard Twins are still around, but they won't be much of a threat on account of that marshal's raid on Pike's Basin about a month ago. The twins who lead that gang escaped the raid, but they're having a hard time recovering from it."

"Is that all?" Fordham asked. "That should take no time at all."

Ross removed a cigar from his jacket, struck a match against his pants, and lit the cigar. He then threw the match down and stomped it out. "Blood will be shed, Archie," Ross said after taking a puff. "But it won't be much trouble."

Just then, Milford returned with two bottles of whiskey. He handed one to each of the Bureau agents and said, "These are for you. Consider this a thank you for clearing West Elizabeth of its vilest criminals."

Archie smiled. "Thank you, Milford. You should consider giving a bottle of whiskey to John Marston. He helped us a great deal."

"I'll consider having a bottle delivered to his house," Milford said.

"You should. That man is a true patriot," Fordham said proudly.

"True patriot my ass," Ross muttered under his breath.

Despite his being quiet, Fordham still heard him. "What was that, sir?" Fordham asked.

Ross took another puff of his cigar and vilely said, "You speak of John Marston as some kind of hero. The man is nothing but outlaw trash."

Fordham was surprised at Ross's opinion of John, as was Milford. "That Marston man isn't half bad, Mr. Ross," Milford said. "He came in here a few times while he was assisting you, and he was telling me of his family and his travels through New Austin and Mexico. I tell you, many a man has come into my saloon, and those many men have spun many yarns, but Mr. Marston..."

"That's enough," Ross said, lifting his hand as a signal for Milford to stop talking. "Will you excuse us, Mr. Weaver?" Milford left respectfully.

"Look, I will not deny that John has done some acceptable work for the Bureau," Ross continued, "but how many crimes did he commit while working for us? He stole a deputy's horse at Benedict Point, he killed a number of Mexican soldiers while in Mexico, and based on eyewitness reports he almost killed Javier Escuella." Ross took yet another puff of his cigar.

"Mr. Ross, you're forgetting the good that John has done for this country," Fordham argued calmly. "He helped the New Austin police force take down the Williamson gang, he stopped the fighting in Mexico, he didn't kill Escuella, and he is responsible for the death of Dutch van der Linde."

"Van der Linde killed _himself_, Archie," Ross said coldly. "Mr. Marston didn't have the guts to shoot him. And who's to say that John won't return to a life of crime? Who's to say he won't eventually join up with a gang, or even start one himself?"

"You're being unreasonable, Mr. Ross..." Fordham began.

"No, _you're_ being unreasonable, Fordham," Ross hissed. "John Marston is a menace to society and must be dealt with."

"I thought so too, but after our run-in with Van der Linde, I could see some kind of change in him," Fordham said. "He's a farmer now. He and his family are as much of a threat to West Elizabeth as you and I are."

"You're naïve if you believe that," Ross said.

"_You're_ naïve if you think Marston hasn't changed," Fordham said angrily.

"We must be prepared for all possibilities. If Marston were to return to the outlaw life, it may be difficult to bring him in. If we strike now, we can prevent a tragedy before it begins." Ross threw down his cigar and stomped it out.

"What do you mean, 'strike'? Do you want to kill John Marston?"

Ross was silent for several seconds, but finally responded with, "We will discuss this later. We shouldn't discuss this in a public place."

"I understand, sir," Fordham said. "Should we return to the station?"

Ross grabbed his hat from the bar and put it back on his head. "Not now, Fordham. It's getting late and I must be getting home to my wife. But we will discuss this tomorrow in my office." The two men left the bar, and Milford emerged from his hiding place where he had been eavesdropping, shocked and confused by what he had just overheard.


	2. The Two That Got Away

**Edgar Ross's Office, Blackwater Police Station, September 18, 1911**

Archer Fordham entered the office of Edgar Ross, having been called there to discuss the matter of what to do about John Marston. Already seated in the office were Lance Garibaldi, a Bureau agent, and Kyle Rech, chief of the Blackwater police.

When Fordham entered, Ross smiled at him and said, "I'm glad you could make it, Archie. Now let's discuss John Marston."

"You mean the man that killed Dutch?" Lance asked.

"Technically he didn't kill Dutch, but yes, that's the man we're talking about," Ross said.

"I like John," Lance said. "I haven't worked with him but I've seen him around town and people seem to speak well of him."

"Would you believe that Ross wants to kill him?" Fordham asked.

Lance gasped. "Is this true?"

"Don't speak out of term, Fordham," Ross warned. "And yes, it is true, Agent Garibaldi. Marston's done some good things, but I know he still has that outlaw spirit. That's what kept him driven to complete his missions for us. He shed innocent blood, committed acts of theft, and burned several Mexican communities to the ground."

"I'm afraid I must agree with Agent Ross," Kyle said. "I can see why Archer and Lance are interested in keeping John Marston alive, but we cannot ignore all that he has done. There's also the possibility that all of this was a front to make us think well of him, so that he _can_ go back to his outlaw life."

"I saw it in his eyes, Chief Rech. John is a changed man," Fordham said. "His days of outlawing are over, and now his family and his farm are the things of most importance to him."

"Believe me, Fordham, I _want_ to believe that," Ross said. "But Chief Rech made a great point when he said that all of this could be a trick by John to get us to lower our guard. The man is a killer, and he doesn't deserve the family and the farm that he has. He's nothing but scum and a potential threat to West Elizabeth. Despite all that he's done for us, he must die."

"You're not being fair!" Lance exclaimed. "And I'm sure the people of Blackwater and West Elizabeth would disagree with you. John Marston has been a godsend to these people. He's recovered stolen wagons, stopped horse thieves, and I hear he even hunted down a couple bounties. He has a good heart."

Ross laughed. "Are you sure we're talking about the same John Marston? You're saying that a man who killed hundreds of innocents on his quest to find three men has a good heart? Why did the Bureau even hire you?"

"Ross, please hear us out," Fordham said.

"I'm sure others will agree with me, Fordham. I have a good enough reputation that I don't need the approval of a simple-minded fool like you. I can round up enough support to take action."

"What ever happened to you?" Fordham asked. "You were once one of the best Bureau agents in West Elizabeth. You're nothing more than a bitter old man now."

"That's enough, Fordham!" Ross snapped, turning bright red. "I expected better behavior from the person who has the privilege of calling themselves my partner."

"Ross, I hate to do this, but if you decide to kill John Marston, our partnership is over."

Ross bit his lip. On one hand, he believed Fordham to be completely unreasonable, but on the other hand, the two of them had been through a lot of missions together, and he didn't want that to just end.

Kyle broke the silence by saying, "Agent Fordham, don't be rude. In case you have forgotten, Agent Ross is the man in charge of the Bureau, and no matter what you or Agent Lance says, this is going to happen. He has the power to make it happen." Kyle turned to Ross and added, "You have the full support of the Blackwater Police Department."

"Thank you," Ross said. "Would anyone else like to join us?"

"You're making a big mistake, Ross!" Fordham shouted, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know why you can't see that John is a good man. I didn't like him when I first met him; you know that I thought of him the same way you do now. But I've seen a change in him, something that's good. He's not going to become an outlaw again. His main concern now is building up his ranch."

"You know my mind is made up about this, Fordham," Ross said. "I'm not going to change my mind. I will find a way to kill John Marston and there's nothing you can do to stop me."

Fordham bit his lip, but Lance picked up the slack. "How could you be so ignorant? This man has been nothing but a blessing to the West and to Mexico."

"To Mexico? He assisted the rebels in overthrowing the country. He's responsible for the deaths of Captain Vincente de Santa and Colonel Agustin Allende, and based on reports from our agents stationed in Mexico, the rebels are attacking Mexico City right now. John Marston is responsible for this horrible uprising against the Mexican government."

"And what if Marston were to raise a rebellion against _our_ government?" Kyle asked.

"Another excellent point, Chief Rech," Ross said, beaming.

"That's ridiculous!" Fordham exclaimed.

"Not when you stop to think about it," Ross said. "John was once a member of Dutch van der Linde's gang, which fought _against_ the spread of federal power and civilization across the West. These men were savages, outlaws who never had a chance against a much superior force. Recently, Marston has proven that he is still not particularly pleased with the way civilization is spreading, and he has also shown a blood lust that never left him when he left the gang."

"People can and do change, Ross," Lance said.

"John was working to forget his past so that he could focus on his future on the farm and with his family," Fordham said. "I think the only people he'll be shooting now are the rustlers who try to steal his cattle."

"I can't believe this," Ross said. "I have the full support of the Blackwater Police Department, which is all well and good, but I can't get the support of two of my own agents?"

"Ross, you know I would support you if it were anything else," Fordham said. "But this...killing John won't do any good. This isn't justice, and you know it."

"I've heard enough out of you," Ross mumbled.

"Apparently you haven't," Fordham said, raising his voice. He stood up and approached Ross's desk. "Listen to me one more time. John Marston is not a bad man. He is a hero and a patriot to his country. He deserves to be left alone."

The entire time Fordham was talking, Ross laughed. When Fordham finished speaking, Ross retorted, "John Marston _is_ a bad man. He's a worthless pile of shit and this country would be better off without him. So would Mexico. He deserves a bullet in his skull."

Fordham narrowed his eyes at Ross and grabbed him by the collar. "I've worked with you for many years, and you've never acted this foolishly. What the hell has gotten into you?" Fordham let go of Ross's collar, but remained standing. "You were once the best in the business, Ross. There's no denying that. But now you've fallen so low I doubt you can work your way back up."

"I never expected you to act so hostile toward me, you little shit," Ross hissed. "You're just as worthless as Marston."

Anger and rage had been building up in Fordham ever since the conversation had turned sour, but now it was too much to handle. Fordham curled his hand into a fist and threw a hard right hook at Ross's face. Ross saw it coming and tried to block it, but Fordham was too fast and his fist smacked into Ross's jaw. A miniscule drop of blood flew from Ross's mouth as both Lance and Kyle rushed forward to hold Fordham back.

As Fordham struggled to break free from their grasp, he said, "That was for John!"

Holding his jaw, Ross howled with rage and screamed, "Get out of here now! I don't want you in my office, and I don't want you in my Bureau!" He motioned toward the door. "Lance, Kyle, get this piece of trash out of my office."

Kyle obeyed, but Lance refused. "You deserved that, you know," he said after Kyle and Fordham had left.

Ross glared angrily at Lance. "I want you out of here, too. I'm prepared to fire anybody who refuses to follow my plans to kill John Marston. Don't want to kill him? Then you're out of here. It's as simple as that."

"Mr. Ross, please don't do this," Lance begged. Ross snorted.

"Goodbye, Mr. Garibaldi," Ross said, motioning again toward the door. As Lance was leaving, Kyle returned.

"Agent Ross, Fordham stated his intention to warn John Marston of your plan. I have locked him in a cell. Should I do the same with Lance?"

"Please," Ross said. "And make sure everybody at the police department is clear that anybody who does not want to follow my plan will be fired. I'll do the same with the Bureau."

"But sir, even with the Bureau and police department, you may not have enough men," Kyle said. "Marston's a bad man, but he's a skilled shooter. I hear word that Landon Ricketts himself taught him a few tricks while he was in Mexico."

"I don't believe that," Ross said, shaking his head. "But you do have a point. I'll call on a few people I know, see if we can get a few more people on board."

"Excellent," Kyle said. "When do you think we would be able to execute your plan?"

"As soon as possible," Ross said. "And if you can, try to keep this from the public. We don't want Marston finding out my plan, do we?"

"No," Kyle said. "No we don't."

"Now go find Lance. With any luck he's still around here somewhere."

As Kyle left, Ross smiled smugly, put his feet on his desk, and lit a cigar. _Soon_, he thought to himself, _John Marston will be dead. And he doesn't suspect a thing._


	3. Weaver's Warning

**Blackwater Saloon, September 20, 1911**

_We can't always fight nature, John. We can't fight change. We can't fight gravity. We can't fight nothing. My whole life, all I ever did was fight._

_Then give up, Dutch._

_But I can't give up, neither. I can't fight my own nature. That's the paradox, John. You see?_

_Then I have to shoot you._

_When I'm gone, they'll just find another monster. They have to, because they have to justify their wages._

_That's their business._

_Our time is passed, John._

These words echoed through John Marston's mind as he entered the Blackwater saloon. He was in town for supplies for his ranch, and decided to stop off for a quick shot before returning to the ranch. Milford Weaver, who was wiping down the bar, saw John and smiled at him. John quickly walked over to the counter.

"I'll have a shot of bourbon," he said. Milford nodded and grabbed the nearest bottle of bourbon. He set it on the counter, pulled out a shot glass, and poured some of the sweet liquid into the glass. He gave it to John without a word.

"Thank you," John said. He drank it down quickly. "Well, I best be getting back to the ranch now. You take care." He started for the door.

"Wait," Milford said. "I have to talk to you."

"Usually it's the patron that riddles his troubles to the bartender," John said comically, "but I guess I could listen to what's on your mind." He sat back down and clasped his hands together.

Milford sighed. "Edgar Ross and Archer Fordham were in here a few days ago. They were celebrating the death of Dutch van der Linde."

"That's what you want to talk about?" John said. "Look, I don't mean to cast aspersions, but..."

"Edgar Ross wants to kill you, John." Milford blurted out. John's eyes widened.

"What?"

Milford sighed, relieved he had gotten it out. "He wants you dead, John. I'm sorry."

To Milford's surprise, the look of shock on John's face faded as quickly as it had come. John looked up at Milford and said, "I'm not all that surprised. That bastard never did like me much."

"I thought you'd be more surprised, John," Milford said, flabbergasted.

"I suppose a part of me knew it was coming," John lamented. "Before Dutch...uh...passed on, he was telling me that the Bureau would just find another monster. He said that our time was passed. I've been thinking about his words ever since he said them."

"John, don't tell anybody I told you this," Milford said. "If word gets out that..."

"I won't," John interrupted. "Nobody else will know about this. Not even my family."

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, John, but you need to warn at least one member of your family. Let them know what's coming so they're not caught off guard when...when it happens."

"No. My family's been through too much. I could never do that to them."

"What about that old fellow that you told me was taking care of your ranch while your family was away? Could you tell him?"

"You mean Uncle?" John scratched his chin. "Uncle's not a trustworthy man. Telling him would be too big a gamble. He can't be trusted with this."

"Then who can?"

John thought about it for a few seconds, then finally conceded. "I'll tell Uncle," he said. "You're right, somebody needs to know. But I don't want anyone else finding out about this, you hear?"

"That's not a problem, Mr. Marston," Milford said.

In the corner of the saloon, a man sat with his hat low. The man, Harold Tray, was Edgar Ross's new assistant, and he had been spying on John and Milford ever since John had entered the saloon. He kept watch as the two continued their conversation.

"What about that secretary, Fordham? Do you know if he's in on it?"

"No, he's not," Milford said. "He was trying to talk Ross out of it."

"Well that's a shock," John said sincerely. "He and Ross had seemed to share a distaste for me ever since they met me. Then again he did compliment me after Dutch died."

The two were silent for about a minute. John broke the silence by saying, "I guess I should be getting on home. Thank you for everything, Mr...I never learned your name."

"Weaver," Milford said, "Milford Weaver. Goodbye, Mr. Marston, and good luck." As John left, Milford could see the look of sadness and fear in his eyes. He couldn't help but feel sorry for John. Milford grabbed a rag and wiped down the counter, trying to think of a way to save John. While he was doing this, Harold walked to the counter and pointed his high-powered pistol at Milford.

"I heard everything you said to John Marston, Mr. Weaver," he said coldly. "And if you don't want a bullet in your skull, I suggest you come with me to the police station immediately. You are going to tell Agent Ross what you told Mr. Marston."

"I have a saloon to run, sir," Milford said defiantly.

"Not today," Harold said. "I want you to close this place down until such a time that we decide you can open it again. If you don't comply..." He cocked his gun as he said this. "...you will never be able to open this saloon again. The deed will go to somebody more trustworthy."

Milford glared at Harold, but finally decided to comply. He walked around the counter and exited the saloon with Harold, all the while glaring angrily at him.

Milford Weaver stood before Edgar Ross, who was sitting at his desk. Harold Tray stood in the corner of the room, staring intently at Milford, making him uncomfortable. There was a terrible silence in the room; seconds seemed to last minutes. Finally, the silence was broken by Edgar Ross, who spoke in a quiet but stern voice.

"Milford Weaver, do you know the penalty for leaking classified government information?" he asked.

"No, sir," Milford responded emotionlessly.

"You weren't supposed to know about my plan to kill John Marston. You especially weren't supposed to tell Mr. Marston about my plan. Do you know what is going to happen to you? You are going to be locked away."

Milford gulped nervously. "For how long?" he asked.

Ross leaned forward and said, "A long time, Mr. Weaver. A long time."

"No more than three years," Harold added.

"Unless we decide to extend your sentence for any reason," Ross said.

"This ain't fair! Who's going to run the saloon?"

"You can leave that to us, Mr. Weaver," Harold said. "We will find somebody who can take good care of your saloon while you're spending time with us."

"Now, if you'll be so kind as to tell us exactly what you told Mr. Marston, that would be of much assistance," Ross said.

"I don't have to say nothin'," Milford said defiantly. Harold stepped forward, pulled out his pistol, and pistol-whipped him. Milford grunted with pain.

"I must ask you to reconsider, Mr. Weaver," Harold warned, holding up the pistol threateningly. "Tell us what you told him.

"Go to Hell, both of ya!" Milford exclaimed. Harold pistol-whipped him again, harder this time. Milford groaned and collapsed to the floor, and Harold proceeded to kick him in the gut.

"Talk!" Harold exclaimed.

"Harold, that's enough," Ross said, holding up his hand. "If Mr. Weaver doesn't want to talk, then leave him be. It means a longer sentence for him, anyway." Harold relented and stepped back. Milford tried to get up, but didn't have the strength. The wounds that Harold had inflicted were too much for the elderly Milford to handle.

Noticing this, Ross added, "Take this man to a prison cell and call on Dr. Purvis to treat him for his injuries." Harold approached Milford again, and Milford cringed in fear. Laughing, Harold picked him up and started for the door.

"Oh, and Harold, don't forget our meeting with Captain Mark Graham and Marshal Johnson tomorrow," Ross said. "We'll see if we can gain the support of the marshals and the army."


	4. And He Shall Know The Truth

**Marston Ranch, Beecher's Hope, September 20, 1911**

John Marston rode toward his ranch quickly, desperate to tell Uncle about Ross's plan. His horse kicked up large clouds of dust as he galloped on, and the occasional passerby looked on with curiosity when John went whizzing past. His horse was galloping so fast, he had trouble keeping his hat on; he constantly had to readjust it to prevent it from flying off. Within a half hour, he came in sight of Beecher's Hope, and by the time he reached the corral, his horse was exhausted.

John dismounted his horse and led it to the water trough, softly apologizing to it for pushing it so hard. The horse seemed to understand and tiredly but calmly drank its fill of water. Once the horse lifted its head from the trough, John led it into the corral so that it could feed. The horse nickered softly at John and bent its head down to graze.

Abigail Marston noticed John riding in quickly and ran outside to meet him. "John, with how fast you came in, I'd have reckoned you were bein' chased by the devil himself!" she exclaimed. "Is something the matter?"

"No," John lied. "Everything's fine. Have you seen Uncle?"

"Last I saw of him was when he was fixing up the ladder on the silo," she responded. "'S good to see that old man finally doin' some work around here."

"That it is," John said, chuckling. "I'll find him." John kissed his wife and went toward the silo. When he reached it, he saw Uncle sleeping at the foot of the silo. John kicked his boot to wake him up, and Uncle jolted awake.

"Huh? Wha? John, you young bastard!" Uncle exclaimed.

"It's good to see you, too, old man," John said. "Listen, there's somethin' I need to tell you."

"I already fixed the ladder," Uncle said, motioning toward the completely repaired silo ladder. "I may be old, but I'm still good fer some things."

"Whatever you say," John said sarcastically. "Do you remember Edgar Ross?"

Caught off guard by the sudden change of subject, Uncle stammered, "Uh...yeah. Why?"

"Well, I was just at the saloon in Blackwater, and the owner was telling me that Ross was planning to..." John stopped as Jack walked by, but continued once he had left. "...Ross wants me dead," he finished.

"Wait, that no-good piece of Blackwater shit wants you dead?" Uncle shouted.

"Keep your voice down, you crazy old-timer!" John said harshly. "I don't want Abigail or Jack to know about this."

"Well they gotta know, John!" Uncle said. "We gotta leave Beecher's Hope. We gotta...we gotta run away somewhere! We can't stay here!"

"Uncle, calm down," John said.

"How can I calm down when our livelihood is in danger? John, they could kill us all. Do you want that to happen?"

"Of course not," John said. "We can get through this."

"But how? They ain't exactly a weak bunch, John. They got numbers. We got just the four of us and they got dozens of men. Mebbe even hundreds."

"If we can't handle 'em, we run," John said.

"Why not run now? While we have the good hand?"

"If we run now, they'll know we know about their plan. They'll track us down. Ross won't stop until he finds us. We have to make our stand here. If it ends up being too much for us to handle, _then_ we run."

Uncle was silent for a moment, then asked, "When are they coming?"

"I don't know," John responded.

The two were silent for a time. The wind started to pick up and storm clouds began to roll in. John's horse whinnied nervously, and Jack's horse, hitched just outside the barn, began to make panic noises as well. Despite the impending storm, John and Uncle just stood there, each trying to figure a way out of the situation before them. Neither of them spoke for almost a minute.

Finally, Uncle spoke up. "John, Edgar Ross is a terrible man."

"I know, old man," John said. "I know. I need you to keep an eye out for him for the next few weeks. Tell me the moment you see something."

"I'll do that, John," Uncle said.

"I don't want you messing this up. You messed up the ranch while I was gone, and you've messed up plenty other things in your life, but this is a matter of life or death." John locked eyes with Uncle and sternly said, "Do not let me down, old man. Promise me you'll do this."

"I promise," Uncle responded, nodding in agreement.

"Good." John looked up at the sky and added, "I'm going to get the horses into the barn. Remember, warn me at the first sign of trouble."

"Alright, John. Ya don't have to keep repeatin' yerself."

John headed toward the corral, where his horse was walking around and whinnying nervously. He entered the corral, grabbed the horse's reigns, and led it into the barn, where Jack had already put up his horse for the storm. _Jack's a good boy_, John thought to himself. _I hope he doesn't have to grow up without me_.

As John started walking toward the house, he looked back at the barn. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure on the hill. Curious, he walked up the hill to find out who it was. Closer now, John could tell that this was the strange man he had seen in Nuevo Paraiso and New Austin. He approached the man.

"Ain't this a beautiful spot?" the man asked nonchalantly.

"Sure," John responded. "What are you doing here?"

"My accounts. I'm an accountant."

"Is that so?"

"In a way."

"What's your name?"

"You know, it's the darndest thing, but I can't remember."

"Tell me your damn name and where you know me from!" John said angrily, his temper flaring.

"Well, I know you from Mexico, and I know you from back out West. I know you from all over."

"Tell me your name, or I won't be responsible for my actions," John warned.

"Oh, but you will," the man responded. "You will be responsible. This _is_ a fine spot. See you around, cowboy." The man started to walk away down the hill.

As the rain began to fall, John could feel his temper reach its peak. To him, this man had been nothing but a nuisance. "Damn you!" he exclaimed, drawing his Schofield revolver and aiming it at the man.

"Yes, many have," the man responded, continuing his walk down the hill. John lost his temper and fired three shots at the man. He intended to shoot more, but his revolver jammed on the fourth bullet. Despite being shot at, the man didn't seem injured at all. John looked down at his weapon, considering the possibility that it wasn't working properly. He then looked back up at the man, who had mysteriously vanished.

"What the hell?" John said out loud, confused about what had just happened. He shook his head and jogged to the ranch house, where there was warmth and things made sense.


	5. Ross's Plan

**Edgar Ross's Office, Blackwater Police Station, September 21, 1911**

District Marshal Leigh Johnson entered the office of Edgar Ross, curious as to why he had called him there. He figured it was to discuss Bureau intervention in the affairs of New Austin, which didn't particularly interest him. He was under the impression that the Marshal Service was doing well enough on their own without added manpower from the government.

Lost in his thoughts, Johnson barely heard Ross when he said, "Please, Mr. Johnson, have a seat." Johnson snapped back into reality and sat down. It was at this moment that he realized he was sitting next to Mark Graham, one of the Army's most famed captains. Mark smiled and tipped his hat at Johnson, but otherwise did nothing to acknowledge his presence.

Also in the room were four other Bureau agents, including Harold Tray. Prior to the meeting, having anticipated this relatively large group, Ross had a few more chairs brought in so that everybody could sit comfortably. The seven men sat quietly, waiting for somebody to talk.

Ross finally spoke up. "So, Mr. Johnson, how was your trip from Armadillo?"

"It was fine, sir," Johnson said emotionlessly.

Addressing everybody now, Ross said, "I appreciate you all coming on such short notice. As some of you know, we have a very important matter to discuss. West Elizabeth is free of most of its outlaw trash. Only one man stands between the Bureau and the end of organized crime in West Elizabeth. That man is John Marston."

Johnson's eyes widened. "What?" he exclaimed. "I thought he was workin' for you. Did he do somethin' wrong?"

Ross nodded. "You've _seen_ him do wrong, Mr. Johnson. If my sources are correct, you witnessed Mr. Marston murder men in Pike's Basin and Fort Mercer. He's..."

"He was killin' criminals," Johnson interrupted, trying to keep calm. "John's not as bad a man as you make him out to be."

"You're right," Ross said. "He's worse. John Marston did our work because we gave him no choice. We stripped him of his free will. But now that we've sent him back to that squabble ranch of his, he can do whatever the hell he wants. He can steal, he can murder; hell, he could even start his own gang, and _then_ we would have a big problem. What I want to do is eliminate this problem before it becomes one."

"John Marston will never be a problem," Johnson said. "He's a good man with a heart of gold, more gold than the amount that came out of the mines in Tumbleweed."

Ignoring Johnson, Ross said, "The reason you're all here is because I need your support. Right now, I don't know if I have enough men to take down Marston. The man is stupid, but he can shoot straight, and I'd rather play it safe and use as many men as I can to kill him."

Turning to Johnson, Ross said, "I need the support of the marshals, and seeing as how you..."

"Forget it, Ross," Johnson said. "I'm not going to help you kill John Marston."

"You sound like my old partner, Fordham," Ross said coldly. "Do you know what happened to Fordham? I locked him up." He carefully enunciated those last four words, thoroughly enjoying them. "Mr. Johnson, if you do not comply, I will have to do the same to you."

"You can't," Johnson said.

To Johnson's surprise, Harold spoke up in his defense. "He's right, Agent Ross. We were able to lock Fordham in prison because he assaulted you. Lance was an accomplice to that assault and that's how we got him. Johnson has done nothing wrong, so, by law, we can't do a thing to him."

Ross groaned. "You have a point, Agent Harold," he said, annoyed.

"If you want my support, you can forget it," Johnson repeated. "I can't be responsible for John's death. I don't want to be responsible for John's death."

"You'll be a hero," Ross said persuasively. "The man who killed John Marston, the last of Dutch van der Linde's old gang."

Johnson shook his head. "No." Ross was about to say something, but Johnson could guess what he was going to say, so he added, "And don't try to tell me that it's my duty as a lawman to do this. West Elizabeth is out of my jurisdiction, so I have the right to refuse."

"Mr. Johnson, if I may say something," Mark Graham began, "I'd like to say that you are completely out of line. And Mr. Ross, you have the full support of the Army."

Ross grinned victoriously. "See? Now it doesn't matter that I don't have your help. I have the Army on my side."

Johnson got up angrily. "You're diggin' your own grave, Ross," he warned. "One day, you'll get yours for killin' John." Johnson stormed out furiously.

"Was that a threat? Could we lock him up for saying that?" Ross asked.

"I don't think so, sir," Harold said. "If he had said 'I'll give you yours', it'd be different."

"True," Ross said.

"So what's our plan?" Mark asked. "How are we gonna go about attacking Marston's place?"

"Now we're getting into the raw meat of it," Ross said, grinning evilly. "I love it." He stood up, opened a filing cabinet, and pulled out a map of Beecher's Hope that he had a surveyor draw the day before. He laid it out on his desk, putting weights on the sides so that they didn't curl up.

"Everybody gather 'round," he said, motioning toward himself. Everyone got up and crowded around Ross's desk. "Mr. Graham, I would appreciate your input the most, seeing as how you're the Army man in the room. If you do well, I think you may become a Major." Mark beamed at the thought of this.

"Alright," Mark began, "my battalion consists of fifty-seven men. Ross is willing to provide five Bureau agents, and the Blackwater Police Department is providing three men. In total, we should have about 65 men for this assault. This should be more than enough." The group of men cheered. Mark continued, "Starting out with all of these men is far too risky, so what we're going to do is split our forces up into five groups." Mark pointed at the map and said, "The first group will attack from the southeast. This group will consist of eight fine Army men. We will be equipping them with the finest rifles and weaponry, and a few will be furnished with fire bottles.

"Group two, which will consist of nine men, will attack from the west. While the Marstons are focused on that group, group three, with eight men, will flank around the ranch house..." He traced their flanking path as he said this. "...and will catch them by surprise.

"If Marston isn't dead by then, we will deploy group four. Group four will consist of eighteen men and will be divided into three small groups. The first two, which will have seven men each, will attack from the northeast and from the west. Those that attack from the northeast will flank west. The last one, with four of our best men, will come from the north.

"By now, Marston should at the very least be wounded. We'll be down to our last twenty-two men if he survives, which, of course, there's only a small chance of that happening."

"What do we do then?" Harold asked.

"We take our last twenty-two men, which will include all Bureau agents, all Blackwater police men, and myself and thirteen of my best soldiers, and we make a last stand. If _that_ doesn't work...well, by then, Marston will be the most wanted criminal in America, and I'm certain he can't fight off an entire country that's hunting him."

"I do like this plan," Ross said, smiling. "I think it could work."

"How soon do you think we can execute this plan, Agent Ross?" Harold asked.

"As soon as possible," he responded. "Captain Graham, when will you be able to mobilize your battalion?"

"They're all here in Blackwater," he responded. "I could gather them all together within a day, but we will need time to gather supplies. We should be ready within a week."

"That's too long," Ross said, shaking his head. "Thanks to that no-good bartender, Marston knows we're coming. He could be long gone by then. Hell, he could be gone _now_. We need to attack as soon as possible."

Mark thought for a second, then said, "I suppose I could make do with what munitions we already have."

"And the Bureau will supply you with more if you need it," Ross added.

"Then we'll do fine," Mark said.

"Great," Ross said. "Then in two days time, we will attack Beecher's Hope, and John Marston will no longer be a concern of ours."

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I THINK EVERYONE KNOWS WHAT'S COMING IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. IT'LL PROBABLY BE PRETTY LONG, SO IT COULD TAKE A WHILE TO WRITE. I'LL PUBLISH IT AS SOON AS I FINISH IT.**


	6. The Assault on Beecher's Hope

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: THIS IS PROBABLY GOING TO BE THE LAST CHAPTER, BUT I'M THINKING OF WRITING A SEQUEL. IT WOULD BE CALLED "KILLING EDGAR ROSS" AND IT WOULD BE JACK'S BACKSTORY AS IT RELATES TO HIS DECISION TO KILL EDGAR ROSS. THANKS FOR READING.**

**Marston Ranch, Beecher's Hope, September 23, 1911**

"John, come here! John, come here! Quick!" The sound of Uncle's voice stopped the conversation that John and Jack had been having and grabbed their attention. They both ran outside, where Uncle was standing looking off into the distance with a spyglass. When he noticed John, Uncle handed him the spyglass and said, "Take a look at that."

John lifted the spyglass to his eye and pointed it in the direction Uncle pointed. The sight terrified him; there in the distance was a small group of soldiers running toward the ranch. John immediately felt his heart racing; Edgar Ross was finally going through with his plan. John quickly regained his composure and turned to Jack.

"Jack, get in the house," John said. "Lock all the doors. Whatever happens, don't come outside. You hear me? Whatever happens."

"Okay," Jack responded.

Overcome with emotion, John said, "Come here, son." He grabbed Jack and gave him a hug. "Whatever happens, keep the doors locked and your mother inside. Promise me, son. Promise me."

"Who is it, Pa?"

"Just some old friends. Me and Uncle take care of it. Now you go inside and you keep the doors and the windows locked."

"I hear you."

"Then run!"

"Yeah, run boy!" Uncle said. Jack quickly scurried toward the house, leaving John and Uncle alone.

"Well, old man, looks like things is about to get settled once and for all," John said, doing his best to remain calm.

"So it seems," Uncle said.

Off in the far distance, Edgar Ross used his binoculars to watch the first wave of soldiers attack John and Uncle. He smiled as they pulled out their fire bottles and began chucking them at the pair of men. "John doesn't stand a chance," Ross said.

"That's my men out there," Mark Graham said proudly. "When they got their orders, they follow 'em. All of our groups are in position and poised to attack. If one group goes, another will take its place. Ross, this plan cannot possibly fail."

"All in a day's work for the Bureau," Ross said nonchalantly as he continued to watch the attack. About fifteen seconds later, however, a look of frustration came to his face. "What? That can't be. Captain, the first group has been defeated."

"What?" Mark stammered in disbelief. He snatched the binoculars from Ross and saw all of his men from that group laying dead on the ground. He saw John run into the house and stated, "Well, that shouldn't be too big of a problem. The second group should be there any second now." Sure enough, the second group quickly passed a hundred yards in front of Ross's group and approached the ranch.

"What do you see now?" Ross asked.

"Marston is out of the house," Mark said. "His son and the old man are fighting with him."

John, Jack, and Uncle were fighting furiously against the incoming soldiers. Bullets peppered the side of the ranch house and the soldiers were fighting relentlessly.

"Look how many there are," Jack said worriedly. "They're gonna kill us, aren't they?"

"No," John said. "I ain't gonna let that happen, son."

"Leave here now, ya bastards!" Uncle yelled. Immediately after he had finished yelling, a bullet slammed into his chest. He collapsed onto the porch, wheezing weakly.

Jack noticed this and quickly rushed to Uncle's side. "Uncle, are you alright?" he asked.

"Dammit, I'm hit," Uncle responded.

Across the ranch, Mark watched the scene unfold. "Ross, we got one of 'em," he said.

"Who? Is it John?" Ross asked excitedly.

"No, it's just the old man," Mark responded. "Good thing, too; he was a good shot, almost as good as John. And since John's boy is shooting like a drunk, it shouldn't be much longer before we get John."

Another man with binoculars reported, "The third wave is movin' in and John's still shootin' at the second."

"We might have him, Ross," Mark said. "This could be..."

"No wait, I take it back. The second wave is all gone."

"Damn!" Ross exclaimed. "What the hell is going on, Mark? I thought your men were top-notch!"

"They are!" Mark said defensively. "John's just...I don't know, lucky I guess."

"Well it's time we turn that luck around," Ross said. "Come on boys, let's move in!" Their party started to move forward toward the ranch.

"Wait!" Mark said. The group stopped. "We can't forget the plan. Ross, I want John dead as much as you do, but we have to be strategic. We have to weaken him before we move in for the kill."

Ross sighed. "You're right," he said. "We wait."

About a minute later, one of the soldiers reported, "The third wave is all dead."

"Shit," Ross muttered under his breath. "Well what's he doing now?"

"Looks like he's talkin' to that old man we shot," the soldier said.

"I ain't gonna make it off this porch," Uncle told John. "You take Jack and Abiga..." He coughed weakly but continued, "...take them and...don't worry about me. Just get 'em out of here." Immediately after he had finished speaking, he slumped down, dead.

"No!" Jack exclaimed. "Uncle, please! Oh my God! They killed him!"

"Come on, son," John said. "Ain't nothin' we can do for him now." He and Jack entered the house.

"John's in his house again, Ross," Mark said.

"When is the next group of soldiers moving in?" Ross asked.

"They should be here soon. Alright, looks like John's leaving the house. So are his wife and son. Ross, I think they're gonna try to escape."

"They won't get the chance," Ross said. "Is the next group closing in?"

Mark turned his binoculars and said, "They're coming in fast, Ross."

"We'll make a run to the barn," John told his family. "Stay close and keep your eyes open!"

"There's more comin' down the hill!" Jack exclaimed. The trio took cover behind some rocks and opened fire at the incoming wave of soldiers. John's heart raced, sheer terror shaking him to his core. He found that this affected his accuracy; he wasn't missing many shots, but every miss could prove fatal. John held his breath and gritted his teeth, doing his best to get through it. Within a minute, the soldiers had been defeated. John breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'm headed to the silo!" John yelled. "Stay down until I got you covered!"

"Another wave of soldiers, gone," Mark said, shaking his head in disappointment.

"Where's John?" Ross asked.

"He's climbing to the top of his silo. I think he's guarding his family while they make a run for the barn."

John reached the top of the silo and shouted, "Alright, you're covered! Now go! Go!" As the next wave of soldiers quickly galloped into view, Jack and Abigail ran as quickly as they could to the barn. As the soldiers closed in, however, it became apparent that even with John guarding them, being out in the open was too dangerous. They hid behind the rocks again and assisted John in fighting the soldiers off.

John held his breath every time he prepared to shoot one of the soldiers. The sound of each shot seemed to echo through his mind as he picked off soldiers one by one. By this time, his terror had turned to rage, and he used this rage to fuel his energy and accuracy. Within forty seconds, he had taken down all but three soldiers.

"Now! Quick! Run for it!" John yelled. While Jack and Abigail were fleeing, the three remaining soldiers chased after them. Angrier than ever now, John narrowed his eyes, aimed his Winchester repeater at the soldier closest to his family, and fired a single shot. The bullet buried itself deep into the soldier's skull and he fell backward. The second soldier didn't have time to react before he, too, had a bullet in his skull. The last soldier looked up at John with a look of complete terror in his eyes, but this terror was quickly replaced by death when John squeezed off one last shot. With the area clear now, he slid down the ladder and entered the barn with his family.

In the distance, as Mark watched the entire fight unfold, his jaw dropped in complete shock and awe. This man, John Marston, had just annihilated forty-three members of his battalion almost single-handedly. Although this probably meant the end of Mark's military career, he couldn't help but feel inspired by this man.

"Mark!" Ross snapped. "I've been trying to get your attention for the last several seconds! What's happening?"

Mark quickly stammered an apology, then added, "He's in the barn with his family. We need to move in now if we still want to kill him."

"Alright men, move in!" Ross yelled. Their small group of twenty-two men quickly sprinted onto the ranch and surrounded the barn, waiting for John to emerge. Just a second later, a horse came galloping out of the barn. On it were Abigail and Jack. One of the soldiers aimed his gun at them, but Ross said, "Don't shoot them. It's John we want."

A few seconds passed and the barn door opened a crack. John's head peeked into sight, staring down the small firing squad that was now waiting to kill him. John wanted nothing more than to flee with his family, but he knew that Ross wouldn't leave them alone until he had killed John.

"If John doesn't come out soon, I want this barn set on fire," Ross said quietly. "If he doesn't have the guts to open those doors..."

Before Ross could finish speaking, the barn doors creaked open. Before the small firing squad stood a very angry-looking John Marston. Now that he was closer, Ross could see that a bullet had grazed John's torso and the man was drenched in sweat. John's eyes locked with Ross's, and the two men glared at each other for what seemed like an eternity but was only half a second.

Having John's attention, Ross mouthed, "It's over, John."

In response, John mouthed back, "Not yet." He drew his Schofield revolver quicker than he'd ever drawn it and opened fire. With six bullets, John killed five Army soldiers, including Mark Graham, and one Bureau agent, Harold Tray. Each bullet pierced the middle of each man's forehead.

No sooner had he finished shooting than the rest of Ross's men opened fire. John felt pain like he'd never felt before; over a dozen bullets penetrated his body within half a second. Despite the intense pain, he was able to stay on his feet for a few seconds; but it became too hard to bare, and he fell to his knees. He looked Ross right in the eyes and tried to say, "I'm still alive, you bastard!" but all he could do was weakly cough.

Ross lit a cigar as he watched John die. Although he was content with his decision to kill John, he couldn't help but feel ever-so-slightly sorry for the man. Ross knew that there was a good chance that John would never go back to crime, but he didn't care. Still, the man was a good shooter; after all, he _had_ just killed six soldiers faster than the rest could open fire. As these thoughts raced through Ross's mind, John finally fell to the ground. Dismissing these thoughts of regret, Ross shook his head and motioned for the rest of his posse to follow him back to Blackwater.

A short distance from the farm, Abigail and Jack heard the shots fired by the firing squad. Terrified, Abigail said, "Did you hear that? Jack, we have to go back for Pa!"

Jack turned the horse around and spurred it as hard as he could, shouting, "Let's go!" The horse galloped quickly to the ranch, and arrived within a minute. In front of the barn lay the bloodied body of John Marston. Abigail quickly leaped off the horse and sprinted to John's corpse, tears falling down her face. Jack quickly walked to the scene and stopped in horror at the sight of John. As his mother cried, Jack held back his tears. _With Pa gone, you gotta be the man of the house now_, Jack thought to himself. _Keep it together for Ma_. He held himself together and held his mother close as she continued to grieve._  
_

Once Abigail had calmed down a little, Jack went to the barn and grabbed a shovel. He looked up at the hill behind the barn and figured that that was a good place to dig the grave. He climbed up there and began digging as Abigail fondly held John's hat, still crying but smiling at her memories of him. Within an hour, Jack had finished digging the shallow grave. He walked down the hill and hugged his mother again, and the two of them lifted John's body, carried it to the top of the hill, and laid it gently in the hole.

Once the body had been buried, Jack went back into the barn, took some spare lumber, and made a headboard for John. Engraved on that headboard was "John Marston 1873 - 1911 'Blessed are the peacemakers'". Once he had finished making the board, Jack climbed back up the hill with Abigail and gently put it in the ground. Abigail laid the flowers she had been carrying on his grave, and she and Jack mourned at the grave.


End file.
